Urban fairytale
by Scimitarmoon
Summary: ...I'll never forget him. His face or the man behind it. A contemporary short story. Humans never change and there are some lessons all of us must learn, like what real beauty is...


The world is full of beautiful things and ugly things too. Sometimes we cannot tell the difference between the two simply because we are just too human. The most enlightened of us might say that beauty transcends our normal perception of reality. If one person sees a face that could launch a thousand ships, another might say it could launch a thousand more; and some may see it as the ugliest face to look at.

The perception of beauty is a strange thing indeed.

Our perception of ugly is confused, and sometimes horrifying. That much I have learn of my six months on the road.

I am a stagehand on the tour of a European metal band called Vampyre Harem, paid a slave's wages but I make enough to support me on my gap year, with just enough to see me through the rest of my college course. I thought it would be like any other job: flipping burgers, ripping tickets at the cinema, just a bit more physical and more interesting. It's much more than that, and I think I've grown up a bit, become a little wiser.

People in the biz are superstitious, that much is obvious even to outsiders. But recently people have been talking, a lot. They say the stage is haunted.

I'm not foolish, of course I said it was bullshit at first: just some story made up by some of the roadies to frighten the backing dancers, one endorsed by Nikija, the lead singer. She's very creative, paints and writes music whenever she can, she has a lot of imagination too, she makes up stories all the time; sometimes to entertain us during are lunch breaks, other times to feed her insatiable appetite for creativity. Nikija tells stories and we love to listen to her. It's all very well, but she believed the ghost story was real. Real. It seemed to be too far, even for Nikija. It was an urban myth, that's what we all told ourselves, because ghosts aren't real.

Nikija said that she heard the woman ghost while she was in the bogs- saw her sweeping black dress training behind silent black boots under the door. When she got out the woman was gone and the tampon machine was empty. Nobody admitted to taking the last one, but there are still much more believable explanations than 'a ghost took it'. Anyway, since when did ghosts have periods? I still couldn't convince her though, I was the only one who tried, everyone else believed her and her wild imagination. Some of the backing dancers said they had seen shadows it the light rigging, flitting between the curtains after the last of the audience have sauntered back to their cars; once, when Nikija nearly knocked out a dancer with her elbow it is said that quiet laughter off stage was heard. Someone singing on stage in the dead of night- a man's voice, a tenor. Sometimes a woman, there were two ghosts, they said. The bass guitarist says he thought they were the ghosts of two backing dancers- lovers- who committed suicide behind that very stage when Nirvana were touring with it; they had become phantoms who haunted the stage where they had once danced, lost souls unable to pass over. That's rubbish, I said, there would be solid evidence for it if it had really happened.

I know now that no one killed themselves behind the stage, or otherwise. There weren't any ghosts either. More and more over the tour they made their presence known. I heard them myself, singing a beautiful duet together after everyone had gone to their hotels to rest. It was during the day, about noon. I was concealed in the wings when I saw –and heard- them. They sounded almost supernatural: a soaring, powerful number that I'd never heard before. A rock piece that had been played by no band I heard, I suppose the fellow had written it himself. I think they knew I was there but they didn't care. When they were done they danced together and laughed. They looked so happy, and so at home on the stage I remained silent. They weren't trespassing: everything there belonged to them.

I know why they hid in the shadows, and remained a myth instead of real human beings. The man-ghost wore a mask that covered much of his face. I wondered why then, when I was ignorant.

When I knew them to be real I started looking out for them. Lingering on stage after everyone else was gone, hanging around the lorries and listening carefully in the bogs. The Lady-ghost betrays her humanity, just like everyone else she has to pee now and then. I learned to be quiet- like them- one day I followed them to where they live, in a secret compartment at the back of one of the lorries. The lady went off, to, as it turned out, get some chips from a near by chippie, leaving the fellow to himself. On his own he looked a purposeless, forlorn creature that was only brought to life when he saw Her.

Then, I showed myself, and he didn't look a bit surprised, only sad. He said, "I suppose you'll tell them all." I shook my head and explained that I was only satisfying my own curiosity and would leave the Vampyre Harem crew to their silly rumours. He said he didn't mind being seen every now and then because it kept his feet on the ground- it was easy to loose touch with reality when only one person remembered he existed. His beautiful Christine, who had forsaken a contract with Spinefarm and a whole career so that she might be with him. She was the only one who could do that, I learned. His name was Erik; like Madonna, no surname but for different reasons- he just didn't know it, or even where he was from or how old her was.

Being a nosy so and so with no tact I found myself tearing off his mask so that I might see his face. I was a stupid child with no control over my own impulses; I deserved a proper slap, I think, but I never did get one.

I wish I hadn't, I could see why he had no choice but to hide in the shadows, like a phantom; he didn't want to, he said, but with a horrible face like that it was the only way to avoid the taunting. You have to be pretty in this industry, plain doesn't cut it, fat makes it virtually impossible and ugly, you can forget it. I wanted to look away, but I was strangely drawn the man who cowered against the wall and covered his seriously deformed face with a trembling hand. He didn't show it to anyone, not to himself and even his lover. Even his mother could not bare to look at it.

I had enraged him, and he yelled and cursed at me for quite a bit. Eventually he lost the will and crouched in silence. I said I was sorry and handed to him his mask and apologised. He worried that Christine would be angry with him- because she was not allowed to see him even though he did not repulse her. He smiled when he told me that Christine was the only person who ever saw through his ruined-at-birth face and looked upon the beautiful, creative musician who lay inside. But she still didn't get to look; how would she feel if she found out some lowly stagehand had the honour and not she?

It is sad that the world never got a chance to hear his music. He wrote all the time, things that nobody else had the creativity- even Nikija- to dream up. He did it all, opera, classical, metal, rock all the worthwhile genres were his playthings; and he was so clever. He could paint, draw, was a great architect or so he said (but there was no proof) but it was all for nothing. I wonder if he had not tried surgery, because doctors can do wonderful things these says and he said it was genetic- something to do with the bone structure of his face that made it impossible to fix.

The real tragedy is that he could have been great. He had raw natural talent, was excellently taught but he didn't have a face that would sell a few CD's. The record companies wouldn't give him a chance, so he was stuck being the phantom of the Vampyre concert. He said he'd tried everything; DJ, guitarist, drummer, shelf stacker at Sainbury's, he couldn't hold down a job anyway and didn't feel like trying for another. He couldn't bare them looking. Always staring, insulting him behind his back- and on the streets the constant ridicule. It seemed he had to hide away from the entire human race.

I didn't blame him at all. At least he and his girlfriend spiced up the otherwise monotonous tour. Same old routine, but something exciting to talk about that didn't involve casualties in the mosh pit. It's a sad thing that people don't know inner beauty when they see it, but it's something I've learned. Never judge a book by its cover. I'm back at college now, finishing off my degree, I'm glad I took my gap year as a stage hand, I might be poor for it, and maybe working the tills at HMV would have been more profitable, but I don't think I would have learned as much.

I left pretty hastily as Christine returned with the food. I only saw him twice after that; we met up once outside the Royal Albert before a gig, and outside my hotel room in Stockholm just before the tour ended. He was a perfect gentleman and gave me a leaving present; I don't know how he found out about my infatuation with toblerones because he got me one of those really big ones. He said he and Christine were going to get hitched in a small Church in a nearby town before finding another tour to hijack. He said it would be a nice change to go for something a bit quieter- that he felt like following around a classical musician to give his ears a rest from the pounding of those giant speakers and a killer bass line. He wished me luck at college, doffed his fedora, which he apparently obtained in a charity shop before leaving for good.

I don't suppose I'll be seeing him or his lady friend again, but I'll never forget him. The face, or the man behind it.


End file.
